Chapter 1: Seven

The head of the Matoba clan's eye unnerves me. When he shows me a glimpse of it, he sounds spitefully amused, like he thought I would enjoy the scar and that I would be offended that he still had the eye.

The scar is, as he said — horrible. The shut eye looks like a clawed hand tried to gouge it out, but missed, slicing a line under his eye.

He tells me that it began from his brow to under his eye. He admits he was scared, not expecting the position of the clan-head would pass on to him so quickly, so unexpectedly. The clan members were prepared though ("thankfully," he adds), and were able to tend to Matoba's eye with treatment and the iconic eyepatch.

Generations ago, the head promised his right eye to an ayakashi in exchange for its service. The promise was never fulfilled. To this day, the ayakashi still targets the right eye of the Matoba's head figure.

Something heavy, dreading and angry, drops into my chest, stifling my breath. I feel even more restrained than the paper seals bounding my wrists. My mind pounds out questions and demands. 'What does the eye look like? Show it to me. Don't you have it?'

I've seen this before, or, I feel that I have. But in the end, it's only a glimpse. He pulls away when he's interrupted by his colleagues, a small indication of irritation in his furrowed brow.

I'm not able to see the promised eye.

I never thought I'd be so scared, so careful, so intrigued after I met this man.

"When we first met, I had mistaken you for an ayakashi. Your eyes are an unusually light color; it's difficult to differentiate them from an ayakashi's. I think they're fascinating."

Ever since he wrapped his hands around my neck, and I made a mark on his arm, we have crossed paths since, connected by an invisible bond. There is something strange, something missing, that I don't know.

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